


despite everything

by falloutmars



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fate, Fluff, Introspection, Jugheads POV, Post Graduation, Post Season 4, Time Jump, Up to season 4, but everything spoken about is canon up to the end of season 4, i guess it's canon divergent since season 5, jugheads beanie is a big part of this story, talks of breakups, talks of cheating, talks of college, the angst is worth it i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:55:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28752507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falloutmars/pseuds/falloutmars
Summary: Love. Romance. Soulmates. That’s not him. It wasn’t him. But… with the girl beside him, she made him believe. Maybe he always has and Betty just brought it out. Deep down. He doesn’t know, though he’d be inclined to think the same about her.Endgame. That’s what Veronica says. It’s her favorite word. She’s called her and Archie ‘endgame’ on multiple occasions.It’s just… that word, as much as he hates it, perhaps it’s what he and Betty are.Meant to be. Made for each other. Two halves of the same soul. Two halves of the same damn broken heart.–or,despite everything, it's still you.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 20
Kudos: 86





	despite everything

**Author's Note:**

> this is the longest oneshot i've ever posted and i'm extremely nervous about sharing it, so i do hope you enjoy it!
> 
> it was written using the ideas of the wonderful [feisty-aquarius4](https://feisty-aquarius4.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! i kind of rolled with it and ended up with this, but their primary ideas are the beanie and the song if i remember rightly. thank you for your inspiration!! this fic is dedicated to you <333
> 
> and yes, the title + quote is from undertale
> 
> (this is minimally edited so excuse any mistakes!)

“So we made it, huh?” 

Jughead closes the backdoor behind him, silencing the party inside. 

Alice had insisted on throwing them a graduation party. As it turns out, life has changed her. Everything that’s happened to her: from her serial killer husband to joining a cult; from finding her son again to rekindling her old flame. She’s different now, not the Alice Cooper Jughead would avoid at all costs from sophomore year. 

In fact, he likes her now. He likes her even if things between him and her daughter aren’t great, even if she doesn’t know about these things and so their current living situation is painfully awkward. He likes her  _ despite  _ these things because she’s been good to him recently. As much as he’s seen what she’s done to Betty over the years, he can also see how much she’s changed, so he’s willing to give her another chance.

He just wishes he didn’t feel obliged to attend her graduation party.

Because of the current… situation, one Alice does not know about, everything is just so goddamn difficult. Being with Betty after what she did, having who’s meant to be their closest friends here. Hell, he can barely look Archie in the eye, and every time he catches Veronica’s attention, she sends him that same sympathetic smile. She seems to be avoiding her ex as much as Jughead wishes he could avoid Betty. He supposes their breakup might’ve made that easier, whereas Betty and Jughead decided to keep it going, even if it’s mainly to ease their current home situation. 

To top everything off, everyone around him is drinking and he worries about his father. Once an addict, always an addict. He just hopes FP can keep off of the alcohol for what’s meant to be a happy occasion. 

_ Meant _ to be. 

It’s difficult to be happy when your life has fallen apart. Everything he thought he understood, everything he thought he knew, it’s no more. 

His girlfriend, his girlfriend who he believed to be the love of his life, had kissed his best friend. 

When she told him, Veronica already knew. She found out at prom when Archie started singing a song he wrote for Betty. God, poor Veronica. Jughead hasn’t had a chance to speak to her since, and he wishes he could. She’s the only person who would understand what he’s going through, and he thinks she deserves his sympathy.

But knowing he was the last one to find out, that’s what got to him the most. Maybe if Betty would’ve told him as soon as possible he could’ve gotten over it. Maybe, or maybe not. 

Fuck. Archie of all people. Anyone but Archie. No, fuck that. No one. He thought their relationship was better than that, he thought it was worth more than a fucking kiss with the one person she  _ knew _ would fuck him over.

He goes through periods of time where he’s so goddamn angry. Angry at her, angry at him, angry at himself. After everything they’ve been through, he thinks he deserves better. But, fuck, he loves her so much.

Despite everything, he still loves her, even if whenever he looks at her he can only see her kissing his supposed best friend.

Fuck. Maybe giving it a go wasn’t the best thing to do. Or maybe he needs time. Not that time is exactly on their side when they leave for colleges at different ends of the country in a matter of weeks.

Everything is so goddamn fucked up.

And this party… he wanted to escape it. He wanted to escape  _ without _ Betty, but when she came up to him in a long silver dress, her hair wavy and cascading down to her shoulders, asking him to join her outside, he just couldn’t say no.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I guess we did.” He follows her down the garden until they are out of view to a group of chairs Alice bought for the whole family. He watches as she drags one away from the rest, pushing the skirt of her dress out of the way as she sits down. 

“Sit with me?” she says. It comes out as more of a question than anything, her voice loud compared to the silence of the night.

He does. He moves a chair so it’s a few feet away from her and sits down, his body facing away from her. This in itself feels weird. They’ve never been that couple, the one who fights, cheats, hurts each other. They’ve always loved each other unconditionally, despite their differences, despite  _ everything _ .

Right now, though, he’s never felt as far away from her, both physically and emotionally. 

“Are you having a nice time?” Her voice is quiet this time, and he can feel her gaze on him. 

It’s a sincere question, but he can’t help but scoff. “If you’re asking if this was how I imagined graduation, then I think you already know the answer.”

Graduation to Jughead, when he finally decided it was attainable, was the four of them. Best friends before everything, but happily two couples. They’d graduate surrounded by all of their classmates and attend a party not dissimilar to this. The only difference is they’d be happy. They’d be together and they’d be happy. 

_ If only _ .

He should’ve known, really, that something would go wrong. It’s Riverdale after all; their whole lives have been filled with wrongdoing and wrongdoing. He never expected this, though. Maybe three years ago, back in the early days of his and Betty’s relationship. But not now. Especially after they survived an attempt at his life with her as the main suspect. 

“I do,” she whispers, “I’m sorry.”   
  
The thing is, he knows she is. She’s told him enough times, just not enough for him to believe it. Despite that, he twists in his chair to look at her and says, “I know.”

The atmosphere between them is, undoubtedly, thick. Awkward, even. They’re mere feet apart yet they might as well be on different planets. 

“Why did you bring me out here, Betty?”

“I wanted to spend time with you,” she says with a sigh. “Alone.”

It’s not suggestive like it would’ve been a few weeks ago. Sneaking off at parties, away from family evenings, to be truly alone. Now, alone is properly talking for the first time since she told him the truth.

“What for?” he spits out.

“Jug… Please don’t be like this.”   
  
He huffs out a laugh. “Don’t you think I deserve to be like this?”

She nods slowly. “I don’t want it to be like this.”

_ Me neither, _ he wants to say, but the anger inside him won’t allow it, so he stays quiet.

“I love you,” she offers, and he wants to smile. 

“I know.”

Her lips quirk up into a smile that he, again, wants to match it. “Do you though?”

He shrugs. “I know,” he says after a moment, “I’m just not sure I believe it.”

She nods again as if she accepts it, accepts there’s nothing she can do to prove it. If he’s being honest, he’s not sure there is either, so he, too, stays quiet. 

An awkward silence falls over them. Awkward. It never used to be like that between them; they used to be able to talk for days without any distraction. Now, the way a cool summer breeze swirls around them is a distraction. A distraction and an easy way to pretend the silence isn’t deafening. 

Jughead’s stubborn, so he refuses to speak first. His eyes fall anywhere but her, and he shifts around in his chair until he can’t take it anymore. With a sigh, he plucks his beanie off of his head, laying it in his lap and fiddling with the button. 

The button, or at least, the original button on the original beanie, meant so much to him. He was reckless when he first got that beanie. Young, stupid, careless. He used to play with Archie and Betty in the Andrews’ backyard, running around, jumping in mud. At ten, he didn’t give two thoughts to the too-big beanie on his head, and one day, he caughts it on a branch. Inevitably, the branch ripped a hole in it, and it wasn’t for a few days until he realized how much he missed wearing it. 

That’s when Betty stepped in. She sewed a red button over the hole, and from that day forward, he worshipped both the beanie and its savior. 

Then, the whirlwind turbulence that was Stonewall Prep happened. That beanie, the one he adored, was used to save his life. But due to that, it was covered in blood and beyond repaired. His girlfriend took time out while worrying about his life and working out what truly happened to knit him a new one – the one he’s currently holding. 

His wonderful fucking girlfriend. 

It’s almost laughable. She knitted him a fucking beanie whilst kissing his best fucking friend. 

Fuck the pair of them, he thinks.

He wants to rip the beanie up. Maybe he could burn it, leave the remnants in Riverdale and move forward.

Part of him wonders if he should leave Betty and move forward, too. 

But then he makes the mistake of not fighting the urge to look at her, so his eyes finally land on her. The swell of love he feels almost hurts. It hurts because he can see her,  _ them _ , and what they did and that fucking kills, but it hurts because he loves her so goddamn much. 

_ He loves her. _

Fuck.

His eyes refocus and she’s smiling at him. A genuine one, he can tell, but a sad one. For some reason, he wants to smile back. He wants to wrap his arms around her and tell her he’s sorry even though  _ he _ isn’t the one in the wrong. Whatever he wants to do, though, he resists the urge. 

“Do you want to go back inside?” she asks.

Does he? On one hand, yes. He hates this awkward situation so going back inside would be an easy way out. But… he can’t face it. He doesn’t want to have to go back to pretending in front of their parents, although he’s certain they know at least  _ something _ is up. 

After a moment’s contemplation, he answers, “No. I want to stay here.”  _ I want to stay here with you  _ is implied, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it because he’s not sure how true it is.

“Can we at least talk?”

He’s so caught up in his own mind that his reply is delayed again. It’s like he didn’t realize she was talking until her eyes burned through his head. And when he does reply, he can’t even muster up the energy to be  _ angry _ . He feels so goddamn sad, and the beanie in his lap feels like a tonne of bricks weighing him down. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, fingertip running up and down the points of the beanie she’d so delicately created. “I guess.”

“Jug?” she says, and he looks up at her with a blank expression, waiting for her to speak. After a deep breath, she does. “Do you regret giving me a second chance?”

Some twisted part of him wants to laugh. What a loaded question, one he doesn’t exactly know the answer to, so he just shrugs, letting his eyes move away from her. It’s too painful to keep looking, and looking makes him want to say something untrue. 

“I know nothing’s gonna change what happened,” she murmurs, “but I want you to talk to me.”

_ You lost that opportunity when you kissed my best friend _ , he wants to say.  _ You lost that opportunity when you threw away the trust we built over the past three years.  _

It’s not fair, though. As much as part of him thinks, or  _ wants _ to think, she deserves it, she doesn’t. It was  _ his _ choice to forgive her, but he’s not exactly giving her anything for it. 

He sighs. He wonders if she'd make an effort to comfort him if they were sitting closer, or if she’s too scared to touch him now. She never used to be like this. She’d always almost instinctively gravitate towards him, as he did her, and at times like this, she’d hold his hand or be near him or just…  _ something _ .

Even in bed, the bed they still share because she refused to let him sleep on the floor, she lays so far away from him. Curled up, she faces away from him, covers up by her neck and a mile of space between them. They’ve never been like that and it hurts.

Eventually, he speaks. “Sometimes,” he tells her honestly. Or as honestly as he can possibly muster. “Every time I look at you I see him. And looking at him–” he lets out a small breath “–I  _ can’t _ . You tell me you were the one to stop it, and if I believe you, that means he was  _ willing _ to– to, I don’t know, would’ve he have fucked my girlfriend?”

She seems shocked by his words, but her voice is nothing but quiet and gentle. “It never would’ve got to that point.”

“He’s meant to be my best friend, Betty.”

Staring at him, she nods wordlessly.

  
“And you’re meant to be my girlfriend.” There’s no malice in his voice, even if he wants there to be. He says it more sadly than anything, more filled with hurt than any spite. 

“I guess I lost the right to that position when I…” she trails off, evidently not wanting to end that sentence.  _ When I cheated. When I kissed your best friend. _

He’s glad for it, to be honest. 

“No,” he says automatically. “I want you to be my girlfriend.”

It’s true. And it’s not the first time he’s said that to her. He remembers a time back in sophomore year before they started dating. He’d been almost certain she liked him back at that point, so he’d been planning on kissing her. Then he did kiss her and she kissed him back, only for life in Riverdale to take over again. It wasn’t until the next day when he asked her out properly.

(“Hey, Betts? Can we talk about, uh, yesterday?”

She looked up from her laptop where she was researching the area of Polly’s disappearance. “Yesterday?”

He swallowed thickly, nodding. “The, you know, the kiss.”   
  
Her lips quirked up into a smile. “Oh. Yeah.”

Getting up, he walked over to her, leaning against her desk. He took her hand from the laptop and rested it on his thigh. “I…” He let out a breathy laugh. “I’m bad at this.”

She smiled again. “Yeah, me too.”

He took a deep breath. “I like you.”

Her smile got bigger. “I like you, too.”

“I like you in a  _ I want you to be my girlfriend _ kind of way.” He paused. “Is that okay?”

She threaded her fingers through his. “I’d like that.”

On a whim, he leaned forward, hesitating enough for her to pull back. When she didn’t, he kissed her again. Their second kiss; hopefully of many more.)

“Thank you,” she whispers. 

He doesn’t know how to respond. He’s stuck in the past, wishing he could be that Jughead again, the one who’s still worried about Archie but in a different way. Then, Archie had been a threat to them, as such. He never knew if Betty still liked him after the events of their sophomore year homecoming dance. Turns out, she didn’t. It took him almost the entirety of their three year relationship so far to  _ believe _ that he was the one she’d chosen. 

Ha. Look how far that belief went. All the way to her and right back in his face.

His wandering eye catches a shooting star. It’s bright, brighter than all of the other stars in the sky, and it’s beautiful. He’s never seen one before, and there’s something about seeing it here and now that makes it feel poignant. 

He’s heard before about wishing on a shooting star. It used to seem stupid to him, but nothing is as it was before. So he closes his eyes for a brief moment and pictures the star flashing across the sky. 

_ I wish for everything to work itself out. _

Maybe it’s a stupid wish. He could’ve wished for peace on Earth or the end of world hunger, but he supposes if even a tiny part of him believed it’d come true, he would’ve wished for something useful. 

Maybe it’s a stupid wish but maybe that’s what he wants right now.

He looks back at Betty. He wishes he didn’t notice how much the glow from the moon frames her face, bouncing off of her blonde hair, making her shine. He wishes he didn’t notice how beautiful she looks in her long dress and how it, too, reflects the moonlight. He wishes he didn’t notice how this is the first time she’s worn such an outfit and he hasn’t told her how beautiful she looks. 

He wishes he didn’t notice her.

But… that’s not fully true. He’ll always want to notice her, he thinks. In any life, in any universe, despite everything, he’ll want Betty Cooper. 

Still, though, there’s some lingering doubt about whether this is right. Not in general, but right here, right now. Forgiving her, trying again, pretending everything is fine both to their friends and family and to themselves. Ignoring the fact that it’s only a matter of weeks until they part ways, an unspoken agreement between them to  _ forget _ about the fourteen-hour drive between their colleges of choice. 

It’s not easy to forget, though. At times, it’s all Jughead can remember, even over Archie. That lingering, potentially inevitable end to their relationship, their relationship as they know it. 

Maybe now would be an appropriate time to mention it.

He has to take another deep breath. It’s like his lungs can’t get enough air, like he’s panicking, drowning, without anything having changed. 

“Betty,” he whispers, afraid to look at her, afraid to speak too loudly. “How are we gonna do it?”

She must know what he’s getting at, but regardless, she whispers back, “Do what, Jug?”

“College,” he answers simply, still refusing to look at her.

“You mean–”

He cuts her off. “Us.”

“We’ll make it work.”

_ We’ll make it work _ . He’s heard that one before. It was when he’d been offered a place at Stonewall Prep. He wasn’t going to go, he  _ couldn’t _ leave her, but then she’d told him to go. 

(“Don’t worry about us. We’ll make it work. We’ve been through way worse.”)

They had made it work, but that was one when he was just a short train journey away. He’d been home every weekend, she’d been able to visit him whenever she wanted. It wasn’t a fourteen-hour drive. 

Fourteen hours. That’s not a weekend trip. Even if their relationship does survive the rest of the summer, hell, if it lasts to the end of the night, they’ll have to live with rushed texts and FaceTime calls. After living in the same town for their whole lives, after living  _ together _ for the past year, that’s a real fucking difference.

One he’s not sure he can deal with. 

“Will we?” he asks. He hears her scoot her chair forward until he feels a hand on his own, so he forces himself to look up. 

She smiles slightly when their eyes meet. “Yes.”

For a split second, he believes her. He can imagine it now, how they’ll both make time for visits, meet back in Riverdale for a weekend together. They’ll have to make up for their time apart, not leaving bed or each other's arms. Their parents will shout at them for their ‘anti-social’ behavior, but really, they won’t mind. And after college finishes, they’ll be stronger than ever. They’ll finally be ready for their own house, maybe an apartment somewhere outside of Riverdale. 

But he crashed back down to Earth, back to reality, and reality is never what you want it to be.

Despite what his brain is telling him, he flips his hand over and threads their fingers together. “I want to believe you,” he says almost sadly. “I’m just not sure I can.”

She replies immediately. “Why?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Is this about Archie?”   
  
She’s brave for asking that, he thinks. She’s brave because he’s barely had the guts to ask  _ himself _ . But that means he doesn’t know the answer, so he sits there for a moment, forcing his eyes away from her because looking at her makes him want to say  _ no _ despite that not necessarily being the truth. 

Of course, Archie is part of the problem. As is the distance. But there’s something else, something intangible, something almost inexpressible. Something he can’t work out.

“Yes and no.”   
  
She lets out a breathy laugh. “I don’t understand, Jug.”

He sighs, a long sigh that makes him feel like a tiny part of that weight has been lifted off of his shoulders. “I think things would’ve been different if…”  _ if you hadn’t kissed him _ “...if that hadn’t have happened.”   
  
“Yeah,” she whispers. 

“But not very different.”

She stays quiet, but he can feel her gaze on him as she squeezes his hand. 

“We still would be due to go to colleges hours apart in a few weeks. Distance wouldn’t be on our side.” He says it like it’s a conclusion, the only one he can get to right now.

“But, Jug,” she says with a sob, the heartbreak evident in her voice, “we’ll make it work. We can make it work, right?”

He wants to nod. He wants to pretend everything will be alright for both her sake and his own. For his sanity. It’d be easier that way, easier to pretend. 

He’s spent his whole life pretending. Pretending being alone didn’t upset him, pretending his mother and sister hadn’t left, pretending his father wasn’t an angry alcoholic. 

Pretending he didn’t love Betty Cooper.

Pretending he didn’t love Betty Cooper when the only love he’s ever known is loving her. 

That was the one thing he stopped pretending. 

He doesn’t want to pretend anymore. 

“Betty, I think we both know the answer to that.”  _ I hope you do because I don’t want to say those words.  _

When she doesn’t reply, he risks a glance at her. There are tears running down her face, her make-up is smudged, and the hand that isn’t intertwined with his is clutching her dress so tightly that her knuckles are white. He can recognize that as a way to stop herself from digging her nails into her palm, and even the thought of being the one to make her feel that way makes him feel like the worst person in the world.

“I don’t–” She’s shaking her head, but she cuts herself off with a sob.

Guilt floods over him. He doesn’t want to do this. Fuck, he really doesn’t want to do this. Not here, not now, not  _ ever _ . 

“I don’t know,” he says as calmly as he can, even with tears building up in his own eyes. “I don’t know, Betty.”

She audibly swallows. “Me neither.”

“How do we…” he trails off, realizing he doesn’t know how to end that sentence. 

“How do we what?” 

_ I don’t know _ . 

Everything, he thinks, is such a mess. Even without Archie, even without  _ that _ , nothing is right, nothing is what he had planned. Stonewall Prep took that away from him, though, not his supposed best friend, though that best friend did do a good job at twisting the knife. 

Sometimes he’s angry at Betty, but sometimes he’s more angry at Archie. He can believe her when she says she didn’t want it.  _ Can. _ But that would mean Archie did. Again, poor Veronica. But, fuck, poor  _ him _ too. That’s meant to be his best fucking friend.

So maybe he can bring himself to forgive Betty, but forgiving Archie is a whole different ball game. 

In his dream life, before Stonewall took it away from him, he and Betty would be off to Yale. Pizza and mysteries, that’s what they said. A small apartment, he’d imagined, somewhere off campus, somewhere of their own. 

And Archie and Veronica, they’d be in New York City. It’s where Veronica belongs. She’d be at Barnard and Archie at a local community college. The four of them would alternate meeting places, for nights out and evenings in. There would be diners that aren’t Pop’s, milkshakes that aren’t the same, burgers that are only good enough, but it wouldn’t matter because the four of them would be together. Despite everything that’s happened to them, between them, they’d stick together. That’s what friends do.

_ That’s _ what friends do. Not kiss each other behind their partner’s backs. 

Maybe Archie isn’t a real friend to him. Maybe Betty isn’t a real friend to Veronica. 

Maybe the only way to sort this mess is to be apart for some time.

That thought terrifies him. His past, his present, his future, it’s all Betty. It’s always been Betty. There’s no part of him that doesn’t crave her, that doesn’t want her in some capacity. But there’s that doubt. A lingering doubt making him question whether or not that’s the best way forward. Not just for him, but for her, too. For Archie, for Veronica. For them as couples, as friends, together, apart.

“Are we doing the right thing?” He says it in a whisper, asking her but also asking himself. 

“I don’t want to lose you, Juggie.”

_ Juggie _ . The single word he’d been dreading her using. His childhood nickname, once used by his parents, his sister, his best friend, now only used by her.

And she sounds so… heartbroken. Like he’s ripped her heart out and is forcing her to watch him step on it. And he feels bad because the thing is,  _ that’s _ precisely how he feels. It’s like they’re hurting each other and  _ only _ hurting each other.

He takes his hand from hers and grabs his beanie again. Looking at it, he remembers everything he and it have been through together, even just in the past few weeks. Since Betty gave it to him—right after she reassured him the fake kiss with Archie didn’t mean anything—he’d constantly felt a bubble of affection whenever his hand made its way up to it. 

Now, he just feels sad. 

“That beanie took me ages to knit,” she says as a joke, but it comes out heavy. 

He smiles anyway. “I didn’t know you could knit.”

She seems pleased for the little piece of conversation. “I had a lot of time.” She pauses and smiles at him sadly. “And YouTube was a help.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Still wish that bunker had wifi.”

“We’ll know for next time.”

_ Next time. _ Next time in this context is not something he wants, but next time with Betty has always been something he’s wanted. 

His brain, fuck, his brain is such a fucking mess. He doesn’t know what he fucking  _ wants _ . Maybe what he wants and what he  _ needs _ is different. Maybe he has no fucking clue and probably never will.

Fuck.

It’s only when she speaks again that he realizes he didn’t respond, once again stuck in his head. 

“I’m sorry,” she’s saying. “I don’t mean that. I don’t want there to be a next time with that.”   
  
He understands what she means immediately, and there’s a bigger part of him that wants to reassure her. “I know. I know, Betty, it’s okay.”   
  
She flashes him a smile, but then she sighs. “What are we doing, Jug?”

He lets out a breathy laugh. It doesn’t seem appropriate, but it’s what he does because he doesn’t know. He tells her as much.

After a moment of contemplation, she grabs his hand again. “What I do know is,” she begins in a shaky voice, “whatever  _ it _ is, you’re it for me. I wasn’t lying when I said you’re the only man for me.”

He nods slowly. He wants to believe it. If he lets himself forget what happened, he can believe it. He’s not one to believe in soulmates, but he can believe if they are something that exists, Betty is his. It’s something he’s dabbled with the idea of since a young age. His parents weren’t exactly the role models of love and soulmates, but there’s some part of him that hopes it’s real. 

Love. Romance. Soulmates. That’s not  _ him _ . It  _ wasn’t _ him. But… with the girl beside him, she made him believe. Maybe he always has and Betty just brought it out. Deep down. He doesn’t know, though he’d be inclined to think the same about her.

Endgame. That’s what Veronica says. It’s her favorite word. She’s called her and Archie ‘endgame’ on multiple occasions. She really must be feeling absolutely fucking shit at the moment. (He really should make an effort with her.)

It’s just… that word, as much as he hates it, perhaps it’s what he and Betty are. 

Meant to be. Made for each other. Two halves of the same soul. Two halves of the same damn broken heart. 

The implication there, he thinks, is they’re inevitable. Whatever happens, they’ll find their way back to one another. Despite everything that has happened, will happen, might happen, fate will lead them to one another. 

“Do you think we’re meant to be?” he asks in a whisper, fiddling with her fingers. 

She nods immediately. “Yeah. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”   
  
As much as it’s nice to hear, he can’t stop the pang of pain that hits his heart. “Me neither,” he admits. 

“I can’t imagine feeling this way about anyone else, either.”

He understands that. He  _ also _ feels that way. Ever since he understood what this whole  _ love _ thing was about—again, not from his parents—he had thought of her. He can’t imagine that image of love in his head that is Betty Cooper being anyone else, nor does he  _ want _ it to be anyone else. 

Yet still, there’s  _ something _ , something not quite right.

He takes a deep breath in and out, watching as it makes a condensation trail in the air. “I don’t know what to do,” he says outloud, partly to her, partly to himself. 

She clutches his hand as if it’s her lifeline. “I wish I could…” she lets out a breathy laugh “...turn back time. I– I  _ hate _ myself for what I did. But you know what?” She pauses, but he doesn’t answer. “I hate  _ him _ even more.”

“Me too.” He shouldn’t say it, not really. But for now, it feels true. “I don’t hate you, Betty,” he adds in a quiet voice. “I’ll never hate you.”

“So what’s–” she pauses, sighing “–what’s the problem?” There’s nothing accusatory about her tone, about the way she says it. She’s simply asking a question that Jughead doesn’t know the answer to. 

“I don’t know,” he whispers. It’s all he can say, in answer to this question, in answer to any others. Because he  _ doesn’t _ . He doesn’t have a fucking clue. 

Honestly, he’s not even sure if he’s made the right decision with Iowa. All along, he’s wanted to leave Riverdale. He hates it here – how can he  _ not _ ? But now it’s coming to it, now he’s chosen somewhere else to go, he’s not sure. Iowa, it’s so far away from here, from his  _ home _ , and it’s so goddamn far away from Betty. 

Part of him wonders, as he stares out at clusters of stars he wishes he knew the same of, if that’s a good thing. Maybe space is what they need, maybe distance does make the heart grow fonder, and maybe that’s what they need. To be reminded of lives without one another. To live, to grow, to exist, without the constraint of the other. 

All along, the plan had been  _ Betty _ . He’s never been one to look forward too far, not in a fatalistic sort of way, more of a ‘I have to get past today first’ sort of way. The future has never been inevitable to Jughead. A distant hope, perhaps. A maybe. A possibility. 

Then him and Betty happened. She gave him that hope, hope of a future. She gave him something to  _ believe _ in. 

And now he’s sitting here, her hand in his, but he’s never felt so far apart. That belief, that hope, diminishing in front of his eyes. Not because of her, but because of life. Because of himself. Because he’s not sure leaving Riverdale and living a future is what he wants. 

He’s not sure he wants anything without her, but he’s not sure he wants anything with her, either. 

“I love you,” he says as a reminder to both her and himself. “I wasn’t lying that day when I said I’ll never stop loving you.”

To this day, it’s still true. Even if they part ways, he knows, he knows for sure, that a part of him will always love her. She gave him the ability to love, and he’ll never forget that. 

“I love you, too,” she replies, squeezing his hand. 

It should be enough. Maybe, in a way, it is enough. 

But maybe in another, it isn’t.

_ Maybe, maybe, maybe _ . 

Everything’s so fucking uncertain. 

He shifts in his seat, one hand still clutching hers, the other clutching his beanie. He looks down at the beanie, once again remembering what she did for him. Not just making the beanie, but everything to do with Stonewall Prep and his attempted murder. She stuck by him even when she shouldn’t have. So maybe it’s his turn to stick by her. 

Or maybe it’s his turn to set her free, to set them both free. 

“Shall we go back inside?” he whispers. “We’ve been gone long enough.”

It’s not what he wants to do. He wants nothing more than to talk more, tell her how he’s  _ really _ feeling. Hell, he wants to use this time the way Alice Cooper thinks they’re using it. 

But he can’t get the words out. He can’t make sense of his thoughts, let alone but them into words to speak. So going back inside, it seems like the only option.

The only option until he remembers who’s there. Alice, FP, Veronica, Archie, Kevin, Cheryl, Toni. Their family, their so-called friends. He doesn’t want to face any of them. He doesn’t want to fake anything anymore. He doesn’t want to have to fake happiness just to avoid questions. 

So staying out here… again, he doesn’t fucking know. 

Luckily, Betty answers for him. “I don’t want to go back in there. My mom will ask questions and–” her voice breaks “–I can’t, Jug.”

Despite everything within him telling him not to, he wraps his arms around her, pulling her head onto his chest. One hand rubs her back while the other clutches her head. “Shh, it’s okay,” he reassures. “I’m here, Betty.”

_ Fuck _ , he thinks as she cries into his arms.  _ Fuck _ , he thinks as his own tears begin to fall.  _ Fuck, fuck, fuck. _

They stay like that, wrapped up in each other as they cry. Cry for what’s to come, cry for what they’ve been through, cry for right now. It’s as if every possible emotion hits them both all at once. Fear, sadness, heartbreak, loss, anxiety, distress. A wave of everything crashing over them, drowning them.

It’s all just too much. Too much to handle. He needs her, and he knows she needs him too. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters through a sob, face pushed against her head as he clings onto her like his life depends on it. Part of him thinks it does. Part of him thinks his life without her wouldn’t be a  _ life _ , just an insignificant existence. He’d be lost without her, but maybe that means he needs to be  _ found _ without her, too.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about,” she tells him, pulling back even as he tries to hold her closer to him. 

He nods. “Yes I do, Betty.”

Her hands are on his face, cupping his cheek, clasping any part of him she can reach. “No, no, no.” She repeats it like a mantra, so much so that he starts to believe her. 

He cries harder, clutches her harder. “Please don’t–”  _ Please don’t go. _

She’s shaking her head. “Never.”

And then before he can stop himself, he’s leaning in. Despite everything, despite the mess of a situation, despite what he thinks, he leans in until his lips and on her, salty from tears, dry from the cool night air. 

He kisses her like she  _ is _ the air, like she’s  _ his _ air, the only one to make him breathe.

As she pulls back after just a few moments, he can’t seem to stop the tears from falling. Heartbreak engulfs him. It drowns him. It drowns him and Betty is the only one who can pull him out. 

_ You’re the one I choose, _ he’d told her last year. Because it was true. It  _ is _ true. She’s the only one for him in so many ways.

As he stares at her, her hair slightly messy from where his hand had been, her eyes puffy and make-up blotchy from crying, she’s everything that’s beautiful to him. She is  _ everything _ . 

Yet…

“Jug?”

He swallows thickly in an attempt to stop the sob from rising in his throat and nods, sending her a weak smile.

She looks down and gestures to his beanie, still laying in his lap. “Can I–” She doesn’t finish the question, but he knows what she means, so he picks it up and tentatively hands it to her. “Thanks.”

Watching as she fiddles with it, he feels tears prick in his eyes again. She’s tracing the edges, just like he did, until her fingers find the button, and she huffs softly. “Did I ever tell you about this?”

He shakes his head.

She smiles almost instinctively as she angles the button towards him. “It’s the original button from all those years ago.”

“Really?”    
  
She noticeably swallows, nodding. “We used your old beanie to stop the bleeding, so that was pretty wrecked. I gave it to Charles to, I guess, dispose of it. But during those days…” she trails off, staring into the distance.

_ Those days _ he was unconscious. Those thirty-six hours where everyone thought it wasn’t going to make it. “The worst thirty-six hours of my life,” she’d said. The worst thirty-six hours of his, leading up to this mess they’re in. 

Clearing her throat, she continues. “That’s when I decided to knit the new one. So I went to Charles and he managed to get the button for me. I cleaned it up and sewed it onto this one.” She laughs quietly. “A little bit of history, I guess.”

At her words, his heart physically hurts. He’d always loved that button, and now to realize she did that for him, he wants to cry. Instead, he manages to force a smile. “I didn’t know that.”

She shrugs. “Any other button would’ve felt wrong.”   
  
He nods. He doesn’t think he can speak without breaking down so a nod will suffice. It’s true though, he thinks. Any other button, although special in its own right, wouldn’t have been the same. That button, with nothing particularly different about it, it holds history. It has its own story, it’s a part of  _ them _ . In a way, it symbolizes more than he’s ever thought about before. It symbolizes how Betty is the only person who’s truly been there for him, how she’s fixed him in more ways than just in a beanie. The thought of letting that go, the thought of forgetting that, it feels him with dread. 

Yet there’s a part of him in a different world. 

“Keep it,” he whispers despite himself. “Keep the beanie.”

Her eyes snap to him. “What?”

“I want you to keep it.” He says it  _ to _ her but  _ for _ himself. 

“I can’t, Jug.”

He closes his eyes, biting his bottom lip to stop it from trembling. Despite every effort to stop yet more tears from falling, he can’t. It’s evitable. 

He wishes he could change the inevitable. 

After a minute or so, he opens his eyes again. Hers are fixed on him, watering, as she clutches the beanie in both of her hands. He can’t stop anything now. His tears, the inevitable end of  _ this _ , his heart from shattering. 

“Jug,” she breathes out. 

He shakes his head. “Keep it,” he repeats until she finally nods. 

“I’ll keep it safe,” she promises. “I’ll keep it until you want it back.”

He nods. All he can do is fucking nod. 

“Even if that’s years down the line,” she adds quietly. 

There’s an unsaid promise somewhere between her words. An unsaid promise of longer than now, longer than a few months, longer than a few years. Forever, maybe. A concept they’ve toyed with for some time, yet despite what the world has thrown at them, a concept they’ve always treated like teenagers. Their lives, they’ve grown up so fast. They were adults before they knew it, but neither of them has ever fully understood the true reality of love, of  _ forever _ , of spending their lives together. 

Jughead realizes this now. He realizes it too late. 

“Is it too late?” he asks. 

She sighs sadly. “Too late for what?”

But that’s the thing, he just doesn’t know. Too late for them, too late to change the past, too late to rewrite a forever. 

If he knew what he was asking, maybe he’d be able to answer it for himself. Maybe that’s just another problem with everything, that he just does not know. 

Maybe he doesn’t need to know everything, maybe just something is enough.

After a moment, he, too, sighs. “Anything.”

She immediately answers. “No. It’s never too late.”

He huffs out a tiny laugh. He wishes that were true. He wishes he  _ believed _ it. She seems so… sure, yet he’s never been so  _ unsure _ . 

There are some things, he thinks, that aren’t meant to be changed. He’s not sure, of course, what that could be in his life. Perhaps he was destined to meet Betty on the first day of kindergarten. Perhaps she was always going to be his best friend. Maybe everything to do with her was predestined, written in the stars, inevitable. Meeting her, befriending her, falling in love with her. He could almost believe it. Everything with her has always felt right.

But the thing that’s fucking him up the most is that just because something was once right, doesn’t mean it’ll always be that way. 

He and Betty… They’ve survived Riverdale together. They’ve lived through their hardest times with one another. Back in sophomore year, when his life had gone to shit with his mom leaving and his dad drinking, she was there in the form of a rekindled friendship, in the form of an abandoned newspaper. In junior year, she was there for him despite everything that happened with the Serpents. She persevered, she kept him going. Hell, even their break-ups. She needed to protect him, he needed to protect her. And in senior year, with Stonewall Prep, she stuck by his side. They got each other through the hardest times.

And maybe getting each other through the crap that this town threw at them was what they were destined to be. Maybe beyond Riverdale, they aren’t fated like that. Outside of Riverdale, they’re destined for other things, other things apart. 

A splinter of hope makes him wonder if they’re destined to be apart, but inevitably going to cross paths again one day.

He’s not sure fate would be so kind.

In all honesty, though, he admires her certainty. He wishes he was like that. If they both believed that, maybe things would be different.

Or maybe not.

Maybe, maybe not.

He breathes deeply in and out, trying to recenter himself, trying to bring him back to  _ now _ , to reality, instead of a time he dreams of living in.

“I don’t  _ want _ it to be too late,” he finally says. 

She laughs hollowly. “I sense a but.”

“But…” He laughs, too. “I don’t know.”

Her knuckles are turning white from the harsh grip she has on his beanie. “I love you,” she says through a sob. “I love you so much.”

He turns to face her even if it feels like the hardest thing he’s ever done, and he cups her hands. Part of him wants to snatch the beanie away and tug it over his head again, part of him wants to burn it, and part of him never wants to see it again.

In the end, he leans forward and kisses her forehead. “I know,” he mumbles, and he  _ means _ it. “I love you, too.”

Jughead’s not one for clich é quotes, but as he holds Betty in his arms while she clutches his beanie, he thinks of one in particular:  _ If you love someone, let them go _ . There are variations of said quote, longer ones, reworded ones, but he thinks the simple concept of it is enough. 

He loves Betty. He loves her more than anyone or anything else in this universe. That’s not up for discussing, nor has he ever disputed his feelings towards her. It’s just… a fact of life, a fact of him. Jughead Jones loves Betty Cooper, always has, always will. Sometimes he thinks his single purpose in life is to love her, whether that be in this life, here in Riverdale, in another life where they’re fated roommates in college, or another where she walks into his coffee shop. He’ll find her in any world, even if it’s not forever. Sometimes you don’t need forever. Sometimes all you need is a few moments spent with another person to be changed forever. 

Maybe in this lifetime, he needs to let her go. Because he does love her, maybe letting her go will be the kindest thing. Maybe if the fates allow it, they’ll find each other again one day, or maybe all that matters is that they found each other in the first place. 

The impact she’s had on his life  _ has _ changed him forever. He’s a better person because of her, he learned how to love because of her. Everything she has taught him will stay with him forever. Maybe he was just lucky to have met her so early on; now he’ll be given the rest of his life to build off of their time together. But that doesn’t mean the rest of his life will be spent  _ together _ . 

Or maybe, just maybe, if he does let her go, she’ll come back. They’ll cross paths again. In a diner much like Pop’s but situated in a different town, he’ll find her drinking a chocolate milkshake. In a bookshop in a big city, Paris maybe, or London, where she’ll be thumbing through the pages of his novel, eyes landing on the dedication page.  _ (To my one true love, B.C.)  _ Or maybe they’ll end up back in Riverdale one day. The disappearance of one of their own leading them back together, to restart where it all once began. 

But with every  _ maybe _ comes a  _ maybe not _ . 

Nothing in life is certain, even if, as he holds Betty in his arms, some things feel certain. 

That can be a comfort in one way. Nothing lasts forever. How he’s feeling at that moment – sad, confused, a glimmer of hope, a dash of hopelessness – he won’t feel like that forever. Things, feelings, life, they’ll all change. For better, for worse, one can only hope. 

But on the other hand, that means life as he knows it won’t last forever. Hell, he’s always known it. He’s always wanted change, but as he rubs soothing circles onto Betty’s back, he realizes something: loss comes with change. Moving out of Riverdale, perhaps the only thing he’s ever wanted outside of Betty, it comes with loss. 

And the possibility of that loss being Betty rather than the hellish rollercoaster that is the town of Riverdale only serves to destroy his heart further. 

“Betty,” he whispers into her hair. “I think I–” His voice breaks, and he can’t get the words out. It’s a delay that makes him think twice about what he’s trying to say. 

_ I think I need to let you go. _

_ I think I need to hold on to you forever.  _

She pulls away from him, frowning. “What?”

He clutches her, trying to stop her from pulling back. He doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to lose her, so he shakes his head, letting the tears fall.

Her hand cups his face, wiping his tears away. “It’s okay,” she whispers, leaning forward to kiss him. It’s a quick kiss because both of them struggle for air after so much crying, but he wants more. He wants more and he wants to erase every thought of changing anything between them from his mind. 

How can he let her go? How can he do this? 

Instead of saying anything, he pulls her closer again, clutching her against his chest, as if he’s trying to remind himself of what he’s losing. 

_ Betty. You’re losing Betty. If you do this, you’re losing the love of your life. You know you might never find her again. The single only person you’ve loved and adored and been  _ sure _ of, and you’re just willing to give that up. _

As he holds her, as he tries to talk himself both in and out of his decision, there are no thoughts of Archie. He doesn’t think of them, of what they did, of what could’ve been if it wouldn’t have happened. None of that matters. Nothing else matters than him and Betty. 

Their pasts… they’ve both made mistakes. When he kissed Toni, when he broke up with her, things he didn’t tell her. When she kissed Archie, when she broke up with him, things she didn’t tell him. It goes both ways, he realizes. So perhaps in a way, they’re as bad as each other. As bad, equal. The words aren’t relevant – take that from him as a writer. 

He sighs. “I’m sorry, Betty.”

He feels her try to shake her head and mutter, “No, Jug.”

_ Sorry _ feels like the only word worth saying. Sorry for everything, he thinks. Sorry for messing up, sorry for ruining our graduation party.

All over a stupid kiss that he can’t bring himself to care about anymore.

As they pull back from one another, he looks down to see her clasping his beanie. “Keep it,” he says again. “ _ Please _ keep it.”

Her eyes meet his. “Really?”

He nods. “I want you to keep it. One day you can give it back to me. One day once all this shit has passed.” He swallows thickly, reaching out to pat the edge of the fabric. 

All she does in response is bite down on her lip and let the tears fall. 

“Hey,” he says, bringing his other hand up to her chin in an attempt to get her to look up. When she does, he sends her a small smile and continues speaking softly. “I’m going to let you go, okay? And I’m doing it because I love–” his voice cracks, but he pushes through “–because I love you  _ so _ much.”

“That makes no sense,” she cries, letting out an attempt at a laugh. It goes without saying that neither of them really find it funny.

“We need to, okay?  _ I _ need to do this.”

She’s crying so much that all she can do is shake her head. 

He takes her hands in his. “You’re going to Yale, Betty,” he says with as much enthusiasm he can muster. It’s not a lot, but deep down, he  _ is _ excited for her. She’s going to thrive, he just knows it. “And you’re going to do great things,” he continues, “but those great things need to be without me.”

She shakes her head again, trying to get out of his grip. “I don’t–” she pants. “I don’t want to.”

Bringing their hands up to his mouth, he presses soft kisses against hers. “We’ll find each other again, okay?” 

As much as he tries to stay calm, keep his voice level, and not cry out, he’s finding it increasingly difficult. Breaking up with her before was hard enough, but deep down, he knew they’d find a way. He was just in a fucked up situation and it seemed hurting her was the easier way forward. Luckily for him, they  _ did _ find a way. And even when they were broken up, he saw her around school and around town, so he knew she was surviving. As much as that made it more difficult, at least he knew she was okay.

But here, now, it doesn’t feel like a break up. It feels like the end. Even if a huge part of him hopes it isn’t the end, it doesn’t stop it from feeling like it.

The only way he can make it feel different is by convincing himself that they  _ will _ find a way one day.

She keeps shaking her head and trying to move out of his grip but he can’t bring himself to let her go. It’s like letting her go would be letting her go for good, no matter what he says. He’s fighting a losing battle with himself.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Please don’t,” is all she can say through endless tears. 

He drops one of her hands, using it to pick up the beanie. “You’re gonna keep this for when we cross paths again. And you’re gonna look after it for that day. Because, Betty, it  _ will _ happen, okay?”

His words sit in the atmosphere between them, words not only used to convince her but himself. They both need convincing, convincing of a distant future, convincing this is right. 

Even deep down, Jughead is in two minds about it. Maybe a break is what they need, time apart to grow as people away from one another, to grow in new places away from Riverdale. If they went together, perhaps a part of both of them would be reluctant to allow that change to happen. Or maybe there would be silence grudges, that one part of their pasts they can’t get rid of.

And maybe that’s not right. Space, distance, time. Maybe that’ll fix some things.

But on the flip side, he knows, he  _ knows _ , time apart could lead to a final breakdown of anything left between them. What he’s proposing here, a clean break—permanent or not—with no contact for the foreseeable. That leaves time for her to find someone new, to replace him with someone else. There’s a distant part of his brain that wonders if this potential new guy would be more like Archie or more like him. He just hopes it  _ isn’t _ Archie. 

So letting her go… in a way, maybe it’s selfish. Maybe he needs that time to stop thinking about what happened, to get over it as such. And maybe he  _ needs _ her to do great things without him, to show the world what he’s always known Betty Cooper has to give. 

But maybe it’s the most fatal thing he could do. 

Sending them on separate paths, on different journeys, it’s like throwing their relationship to the dogs. Saying ‘fuck this’ and forgetting all of the wonderful years they had together when their time isn’t up.

He’s not one to believe in fate. Well, he wasn’t one to believe in fate, but maybe it’s time. If they’re meant to be, they’ll cross paths again. He’s not certain of it, but he has to try.

When she nods, he lets the tears fall. She collapses into his arms in a flood of tears and he lets her. If this is the last time he’ll be with Betty Cooper, it’s the least he can do.

“I love you,” she whispers into his chest. “I’ll always love you.”

“I’ll always love you, too, Betty Cooper.”

That night, when they head back inside as if their hearts hadn’t just been shattered, a soft melody plays throughout the house. 

  
  


It’s years later when Jughead makes that trek back to Riverdale again. Through no choice of his own, after years of avoiding it, he has to go back. Unfortunately, the circumstances are anything but ideal. The once and forever beloved Pop Tate has died. 

Of course, Jughead is devastated. Pop acted as an unofficial father to him for years, and his milkshake and burgers got Jughead through the hells of Riverdale. There’s a part of him that wishes he would’ve gone back sooner to see Pop again after his abrupt departure right after graduation left him leaving without saying goodbye, but alas, some things just aren’t meant to be. 

He planned on staying in town with FP just for the funeral, but when he got there, it seems the circumstances surrounding Pop’s death are suspicious to say the least. That’s when he decides to stay, for a few weeks at first, just to try to get to the bottom of this. It’s not what he wants at all, but sometimes, life just works that way. 

One rare evening off, he heads to the diner as a means to support Pop’s granddaughter who’s currently running the place. It feels weird to be there with Pop, but she seems to appreciate the sympathetic smile and massive order he gives her. 

He sits in the same booth he always did, admiring the lack of changes to this place. Sitting here is like taking a step back in time and he loves it. The only difference he notices is quiet music playing in the background. A nice addition, he thinks.

Though he’d be hesitant to admit it, he’s missed this place. Not just the diner, Riverdale too. 

Pop’s granddaughter—he should probably take note of her name tag at some point—brings over his order: a cheeseburger, a side of fries, a side of onion rings, and a chocolate milkshake. He thanks her with a smile, making a mental note to leave a big tip.

His plate gets drenched in ketchup and he sips his milkshake. The sweet, chocolatey liquid runs over his tongue, and boy is it good. He hasn’t had one quite as good as this in a long time, even if it isn’t made by Pop himself.

Surprisingly enough, it feels good to be back.

  
As he ploughs through his plateful of food, he allows his mind to wander back to the last time he was in this town. After the night of Alice’s graduation party for them all, he’d decided he needed to get out sooner than college allowed. So he said a brief goodbye to FP and JB, left a note for Betty on the bed they shared for the past year, and packed a small bag. He’d come back for the rest of his stuff before he moved to Iowa, but right then, he jumped on his motorbike and just left.

It hurt to leave. To leave town, to leave his younger sister once again, to leave Betty for good. But looking back, he thinks it was the right decision. He needed to get out of that hellish circle he’d been in, and he did. 

He never used to be one for  clich é quotes. He never wanted to circum to that believing them, but that’s what time and change does to you. But as he sits in that same booth feeling as if he’s eighteen again, he thinks of one:  _ you don’t know what you had until it’s gone _ .

It applies to him and his life in a variety of ways, he realizes. Sure, maybe Riverdale was bad at a point. He lived some of his worst moments in this town, and getting away was what he needed at that time. But after so much time away, he realized it wasn’t all bad. Coming back has made him realize how much he’d left behind. 

Of course, he can’t help but think of Betty, too. He distantly recalls a continuation of that quote that says  _ you knew what you had, you just never thought you’d lose it _ , and he thinks that applies as well. He knew he was the luckiest damn bastard when he was with her. He thought letting her go was kind, a show of how much he loved her, but in reality, he lost her. 

That night, part of him thought that, despite everything, they’d make it work. Another part of him thought that, despite everything, they’d cross paths again one day. But it’s been seven years. Seven long years. Now he doesn’t believe in fate.

And perhaps there will always be a piece of him that wonders if things would’ve been different if her and Archie wouldn’t have happened. If their relationship would’ve been left without a wound that cut so deep. Maybe they would’ve made it work, would’ve made more of an effort to get through the fourteen-hour drive. Or maybe then a part of him would’ve always distrusted her, been looking over his shoulder, constantly holding a grudge. 

He doesn’t know. He’ll  _ never _ know. And it’s okay, or at least it should be.  _ Don’t dwell on the past. _

He washes down a mouthful of burger with a sip of milkshake, but he might as well be drinking nostalgia. He’s twenty-five now, but he could be sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. Back in Riverdale, in Pop’s alone. 

He lets out a sigh. It must’ve been louder than he meant because it grabs the attention of Pop’s granddaughter.

“You alright?” she says as she wanders over to him. 

Jughead nods. “It’s been a while.” 

When she reaches him, he takes note of her nametag. Tabitha. Tabitha Tate. Now he knows this, he remembers Pop mentioning her a few times in passing, and the thought makes him smile.

Tabitha smiles back. “Did you know my grandfather?”

“Yeah. He, uh, he helped me a lot back in the day.” He clears his throat awkwardly. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Me too,” she says sadly. “It’s nice to be here, though. He did well.”

Deciding to negate the fact of Hiram Lodge, then Veronica, then Hermione and Veronica owning the diner before finally selling it back to Pop, he just agrees. “He did. We– I miss seeing him here, although you’ve gotten his milkshakes down to a ‘t’.”

She laughs softly, leaning against the red leather booth. “Anything to keep his memory living on.”

Jughead agrees with that. “If there’s any way to keep Pop Tate’s legacy alive, it’s through his diner.”

She nods and an awkward silence falls over them. He stares down at his food, hand itching to take a fry, but he resits. Instead, his hand almost automatically flies up to his head, wanting to fiddle with his beanie. The same beanie that hasn’t sat atop his head in over seven years. 

The same beanie he gave to Betty.

As he fingers find a strand of hair to fiddle with, he realizes he regrets giving that beanie away. Despite all of the negative moments he ended up associating with it, he misses it. Not just wearing  _ a _ beanie, but that particular one. There was a lot of good, too. 

It’s only then that he realizes Tabitha had been speaking.

“Sorry,” he mutters, dropping his hand. “What were you saying?”

She sends him yet another smile. “Just asking for a name. Wondered if Pop ever mentioned you.”

“Oh,” he says. “Jughead. Jughead Jones.”

Her face lights up. “Ah. I remember. He spoke highly of you and… is it Betty?”

Swallowing down hard in an attempt to stall a sob, he nods. “Betty Cooper.”

“You and her…” Tabitha trails off, gesturing vaguely, and all Jughead can bear to think about is his food getting cold. “Sorry,” she adds. “I don’t remember much–”   
  
Jughead interrupts her. “No, it’s okay. We dated. We split. It was seven years ago.”   
  
“I’m sorry,” she repeats. 

_ Yeah _ , he thinks,  _ me too _ . 

“If it’s any consolation, Pop would be glad you’re here.”

He forces out a smile. “I should’ve made it back sooner. Instead I’m here to–” he cuts himself off, deciding telling the granddaughter of the man whose death he’s investigating what he’s doing is a bad idea. 

Luckily, she doesn’t notice. “We all should’ve done things differently,” she says softly, but the bell that still occupies the door interrupts her, ringing behind them, so she spins around. “Let me know if you need anything, Jughead.”

Even once she’s busy with the new customer, he can’t bring himself to touch his food anymore. Her words buzz in his head. Not just about Pop, about the diner, but about Betty and doing things differently.

He wonders if she realizes how relevant her words are to him.

He sips the now-slightly melted milkshake in lieu of food. It’s still nice. It’s still nostalgic. But it hurts. 

Since leaving Riverdale all those years ago, he hasn’t really had any contact with anyone from here aside from FP. Betty because that’s what he promised both her and himself; Archie for obvious reasons; Veronica because he never had the chance. There’s a handful of others, like his Serpent friends, he wishes he would’ve kept up some level of communication, but now years have passed and it’s all too late.

Everything’s always too fucking late. 

Fucking fate. Bullshit.

He forgoes the food and heads over to Tabitha, who’s standing behind the counter, staring into space. “Hey,” he says, and she jumps. “Sorry. Just need to pay the bill.”   
  
She glances over to his booth and back to him. “All done?”   
  
“It’s, uh, more than I expected. To be here, I mean.”

She nods in acceptance and starts punching keys on the cash register, thankfully deciding against asking any questions. A few seconds later, she hands him a receipt with his total, so in exchange he hands over three ten dollar bills and says, “Keep the change.” It’s only money, after all. 

After she thanks him profusely, mentioning he should come back soon, Jughead turns out and with a deep breath, heads towards the door. As he does, the track playing in the background changes to a song he recognizes. He hesitates at the door, hand on the handle, and listens. 

It only takes a few seconds for him to realize what it is. It’s the song, a mellow melody, that was playing on the night of the graduation party. It’s the song he’s never been able to find, no matter how much searching on the internet he’s done over the past seven years. 

It’s the song he associates with Betty. 

He takes a few more seconds to listen, almost contemplating asking Tabitha if she knows the name. But with a sad sigh to himself, he opens the door, the sound of the bell and the door closing behind him drowning out the nameless song.

It plays in his head as he walks the short distance across the parking lot to his bike. It plays in his head with memories of that night, and he might as well be back there. Back as a scared eighteen year old, his life having just been ripped apart, by himself no less. 

(“I love you,” she whispered into the darkness of their room that night. “Please change your mind.”

Tears ran down his face. “We can’t, Betty,” he whispered back, pulling her closer to him. It was a stupid thing to do, but he knew it’d be their last night together. 

“I know.”   
  
As he held her tighter than he ever had before, he pressed a kiss into her hair. “I love you, too. I’ll always love you.”)

He has to close his eyes and shake his head to rid himself of such memories, still raw after all those years. 

Riverdale had quietened down since he left, so leaving his bike and helmet haphazardly in the parking lot feels okay. Old habits die hard, though, as he almost instinctively kept eyeing it while in Pop’s, and now, he wanders around, looking for any evidence of wrongdoing. 

After all, he’s the one looking for a potential murderer. 

(Perhaps a town like Riverdale can never truly change.)

Luckily for him, nothing seems out of sorts, so he grabs his helmet, letting its weight drag his hands down. He’s stalling going home, he knows he is. He’s stalling dealing with FP because he knows FP’s departure is imminent and  _ that _ will leave him homeless again with no choice but to stay in Riverdale, so he’s avoiding the topic and so it’s just easier to avoid going home.

He’s been running his whole life. He’s been running from himself, from this town, from Betty. 

He’s running but now he’s fucking exhausted. 

He just wants to stop.

Step one, he thinks, is to  _ go home _ . Do what he’s been avoiding. 

But as he hauls his helmet up, he’s forced to deal with something else he’s been running from. 

“Jughead?” a voice booms from behind him. He could pretend he didn’t recognize her voice, but he’d be lying. Her voice has been etched into his brain ever since he met her. He’d recognize her in any world, but mostly, he’d recognize her in this one.

Not that he needs to, but he spins around, and his suspicions are confirmed. He lets out a breathy, “Betty,” and gravitates towards her without a second thought, his helmet abandoned on his bike seat.

As he floats across that short distance of the parking lot, he takes her in. She looks… different, yet so, so familiar. Her blonde hair is longer now, free from the confines of her ponytail. She’s wearing an outfit different to Riverdale Betty; no pastel sweaters and white keds. He has to remind himself that this isn’t Riverdale Betty, she isn’t the Betty he knew—and loved—anymore.

But that doesn’t stop the familiarity from overwhelming him.

The truth is, he never did stop loving her. Those words he murmured to her on multiple occasions on that final night, those were the  _ truth _ . He always knew he’d never find someone quite like her. She’s his soulmate, his other half, the love of his life. He’s  _ always _ known it. 

Yeah, maybe letting her go was a stupid thing to do, but he still maintains (whether or not he  _ believes _ it) that it was the right thing to do.

Looking at her now, seven years later, only confirms that for him. 

Despite everything he once thought—and still thinks—he did what was best. 

( _ Liar _ , he bitterly thinks to himself.)

Slowing to a stop, he realizes they’ve met somewhere in the middle of the parking lot, and he smiles. “Hey,” he says.

She smiles back, even if it is that tight, fake one he remembers dearly. “Hi, Jughead.”

An awkward silence surrounds them. A silence filled with seven years worth of missing, seven years worth of change.

Jughead recalls that final night and how the distance between them cut like a knife even though she was right next to him. That was nothing compared to how it feels to look at her after seven years. 

“How have–”

“What–”

They both laugh awkwardly, and Jughead shifts from foot to foot. “You first.”

She nods. “How have you been?”

_ Talk about a loaded question, _ he wants to remark, but he pushes that thought away and shrugs, avoiding the question all together. “It feels strange to be back.”

In true Betty Cooper fashion, she picks him up on it. “That’s not how you’ve been.” She says it softly, in a jokey fashion, just the way he remembers. 

“I– Yeah, alright.” Short and sweet, he decides. This is small talk, she isn’t asking for his autobiography. “You?”

She nods. “So, so.” 

Another silence falls over them, and Jughead’s hand, once again, flies up to fiddle with the beanie that isn’t there. He manages to pass it off as running his fingers through his hair, but then it dawns on him that he could ask for his beanie back. 

_ No _ , he thinks.  _ You can’t just ask your ex for something you gave to her seven years ago. She probably doesn’t even have it anymore _ .

Tears prick in his eyes as he stares into the distance at the highway that runs behind the diner. But as she clears her throat, he’s forced back to reality, swallowing down to stop the tears from falling.

“It’s sad, isn’t it?” she says, gesturing to the neon sign of Pop’s they both know so well.

He nods. “I, uh, I just met Tabitha, his granddaughter. I didn’t tell her I’m–” he cuts himself off. It still feels like second nature to tell Betty things like that (bar for a handful of times he was an  _ idiot _ ), especially in the case of an investigation. It was always  _ their _ thing. For some reason, he forgot it isn’t anymore. For all he knows, she hates investigating now. He really doesn’t know her at all.

She fiddles with a button on the blouse she’s wearing, staring down instead of at him. “Didn’t tell her…?” she asks in a small voice.

Part of him thinks she already knows. Maybe not confirmed, but instinctively. In that way she always knew him better than anyone else. Or maybe not. Maybe seven years shatters that.

He internally debates for about thirty seconds whether or not to tell her. In the end, he decides that it’s  _ Betty _ . Even after seven years, it’s still  _ her _ . A fractured part of him hopes she’ll offer to help, but he thinks he knows better than that.

“I’m staying in Riverdale for a while,” he says, “to investigate Pop’s death.”

“Oh,” she says, her lips twisting into a tiny frown, and his heart breaks. 

“Yeah,” he forces out.

Looking up, her eyes meet his, and this time she smiles. “I’m glad you’re still doing that stuff, Jug.”

He can’t help but smile back, the words, “It’s not the same without you,” tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop them. As soon as they’re out there, they sit in the space between them, and he wishes he could take them back.

“I…” She hesitates for a moment, glancing around her before turning back to him. “Can you keep a secret?”

He nods.

“I’m an FBI agent,” she all but whispers, and he gasps. “And I’m working this case.”

His eyes light up and his lips quirk up into a smile. “Really?”

She grins, nodding proudly. “Wanna head inside and compare notes?”

He glances to the door and back at her, unable to keep a grin similar to hers off of his face.. “Just like old times?”

“Just like old times,” she confirms.

As they sit in the same booth as they did all those years ago, they quietly discuss the case in between jokes and catch-ups. They drink familiar milkshakes, and Jughead feels lighter already. When he looks up at her, she’s laughing at something he said, and she is beautiful. 

_ Despite everything _ , he thinks,  _ it’s still you. _

At the end of the night, as if she can read his mind, she reaches for his hand and says, “I’ll bring your beanie tomorrow.”

And for the first time in seven years, he believes in fate again. 

_ It’ll always be you. _

**Author's Note:**

> i really really hope you enjoyed this. i am sorry about the angst, i really am, but i hope i made up for it in the end. i'd really appreciate it if you let me know your thoughts. kudos and comments mean the world to me. thank you for reading <3
> 
> join me on [tumblr](https://fallout-mars.tumblr.com/) for season 5 rants.


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